


Chasing Heaven

by Enfilade



Series: South of Heaven [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Parallel Universes, Past Drug Addiction, Terminal Illnesses, Theft, Violent Thoughts, Wakes & Funerals, past tense Ratchet/Pharma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: In his darkest hour, Drift realizes that New Cybertron doesn't just have familiar places and things slightly different from their native-universe counterparts--it also has familiar people.  Contains spoilers for Lost Light #25.





	1. Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this story to stand alone. If you want more detail on some of the backstory, you can find it in “Hopeless Wanderer,” but I’m reluctant to list this story as part of the “Mend What is Broken” series because I want to imagine that series eventually concluding with Drift and Ratchet on the Lost Light, heading off into new adventures. 
> 
> This is a story for the /other/ timeline.
> 
> (I will finish “Hopeless Wanderer” eventually, but I needed this one right now.)

Chapter One: Haunted 

Drift had been reluctant to come here, to the Deltaran Medical Facility. Ratchet himself had never liked coming here. He’d said it was _uncanny_. 

The Deltaran Medical Facility on Cybertron had been bombed halfway through the war and rebuilt; _this_ Deltaran Medical Facility, on New Cybertron, had been protected by its presence in the last Functionist stronghold. As a result, it was still much the way it had been four million years ago – just with millions of years of wear and age put on its corridors, its décor, its equipment. It was a reminder that New Cybertron was a world from another timeline, where history had played out differently: familiar, but not at all the same. 

Still, it was the foremost medical facility on New Cybertron, and Ratchet had been chief of staff of _his_ DMF, and the post-war reconciliation meant that this planet had not one but two officially accepted histories, and those two histories were just going to have to learn to share space with one another. 

So Ratchet was being honoured by the placing of a plaque at the DMF, and Drift was expected to be there. As Ratchet’s _conjunx endura_ he _had_ to be there. But the mood suppressant First Aid had given him was wearing off, and Drift struggled to maintain his composure as Fixit went on and on about Ratchet’s contributions to the field of Cybertronian medicine. 

Drift gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists, willing himself to _hold on_. Not to think about a world without Ratchet. Without his skilled hands and warm heart. Without his _smile_. 

Drift slipped out before the ceremony concluded. He couldn’t bear standing in a receiving line, shaking hands with strangers, listening to mech after mech tell him how sorry they were and how much Ratchet would be missed. 

Not as sorry as he was. 

Not as much as he would. 

He avoided the bustling corridors filled with patients, nurses and doctors; he steered clear of the cafeteria, the office wings, and the reception area. He’d escape out the back of the hospital via the loading docks. Somewhere free of unwanted sympathy. 

Drift turned down hallways that smelled of solvents and rust. Janitorial cabinets. Rooms of unused gurneys. Storage lockers. 

The morgue. 

He turned into a dimly lit passageway and saw memorial plaques lining the walls. These weren’t anything like the big, shiny, brassy plaque that was Ratchet’s memorial, up in the main area of the hospital. They were small and dull and engraved with batch codes and serial numbers and, sometimes, a name. 

Drift knew what he was looking at. Ratchet had told him about it. This was where the DMF stored the remains of all the mechs who’d died in the facility, whose bodies had never been claimed. And by _stored the remains_ they meant just the brain and spark casing. The rest was salvaged for re-use or melted down for scrap. 

Drift shivered despite himself, remembering how close he’d come to winding up in a place very like this. If Orion Pax hadn’t come along when he had. If Ratchet hadn’t been as good as he was. 

If there was any justice in the universe, Drift would be a ghost now, haunting this corridor with the rest of the forgotten dead, and Ratchet would still be alive. 

But the universe didn’t work like that. 

Drift rounded the corner and realized, too late, that this passageway wasn’t empty. 

The walls here were crowded with pauper’s graves, and the smell of rust hung heavy in the air, but a few steps away along the corridor, two small energon lamps flickered in sconces bracketed to the wall, one on each side of a plaque that looked as small and as anonymous as all the others. A figure stood in front of the plaque, its head bowed. 

So maybe everyone buried here wasn’t completely forsaken after all. 

Drift didn’t want to interrupt the graveside vigil, nor did he feel he could bear a polite conversation, even with someone who was also in mourning. Drift tried to step softly, to turn and leave, but he wasn’t quiet enough. The other mech straightened up and turned his head to face Drift. 

Dancing shadows played over familiar features. 

Not _that_ familiar. Not the form he’d worn for their married life. Nor the form that had haunted Drift’s thoughts for four million years—the face he’d woken up to in the clinic in Rodion. Why was Ratchet was wearing his second shape, the one he’d worn through most of the war? 

Why was Ratchet down here, in this potter’s field? 

Drift believed in the afterlife, and, yes, he had an open mind about ghosts, but _this_ Ratchet—this body, this place—seemed so bizarre that he felt as though he must be dreaming. 

Ratchet’s eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open. 

“Oh,” was all he said. 

Drift didn’t want to talk to anyone, but that didn’t include _Ratchet_ —the one person he wanted to talk to more than anyone, the one person he’d never get to talk to again. But Ratchet was dead, so if Drft was seeing what he thought he was seeing, then Ratchet was a spirit. Or perhaps this was what Ratchet would surely have called a grief-induced waking hallucination. Either way, Drift was being haunted. 

A haunting was supposed to be terrifying, and it _was,_ but not because Drift felt any mortal peril, or cared in the slightest if he died too. It was terrifying because at any moment the ghost might vanish, or perhaps Drift would blink and the hallucination would resolve itself as an illusion projected over the presence of a stranger. Either way, Drift had Ratchet back, and any second now, he would lose him all over again. 

“Ratchet” staggered backwards. He gaped at Drift as though _Drift_ were the ghost. 

Drift stepped forward, wondering if he could touch Ratchet before he disappeared. 

Ratchet’s gaze slid to the illuminated tomb, then back to Drift. 

Drift took a sideways glance at the plaque. 

Froze. 

Felt his spark turn to ice. 

And then remembered that there was a logical explanation. 

Ratchet said that New Cybertron’s Deltaran Medical Facility was uncanny because it was the DMF, but not _his_ DMF. Drift now lived in on a planet that came from a parallel universe. This world had two accepted histories that were going to have to learn to share space with one another. 

The name on the tomb read DREDDLOCK. 

Which gave Drift a terrible theory that did not involve either spirits or hallucinations. 

“Ratchet?” he whispered. 

At the same time, an incredulous Ratchet stammered, “Drift? Is that you?” 


	2. Dreaming

Chapter Two: Dreaming 

The weirdest thing about New Cybertron wasn’t that it was a duplicate of this universe’s native Cybertron, although that was pretty odd. The weirdest thing was that because a populated planet had been brought here from a parallel universe, this universe now had _two_ of some people. 

Ratchet had not particularly liked changing his name to “Ratchet of _New_ Vaporex _._ ” But, since this was _New_ Cybertron—this universe having already had its own Cybertron—and he was from this planet, he was now, legally, Ratchet of New Vaporex. He supposed there had to be some way to distinguish him from the _other_ fellow. Ratchet of this universe’s Vaporex. 

The other fellow had died recently. Though most of New Cybertron’s medical staff were attending the memorial service up in the main hall, Ratchet could not bring himself to do it. It was _uncanny_ , to go to a memorial to someone who was more or less himself. To stand there as the officiant listed accomplishments that were the same as his own…at least at first. _That_ Ratchet had stayed as Chief Medical Officer much longer, while _he_ had deferred to Pharma and faded into obscurity… That Ratchet sounded like a better person, all around. 

No. In the end, he didn’t want to have to face a eulogy for his other self. 

He was getting along all right in this brave new world as long as he didn’t think too much about it. He buried himself in his work and let the days go by. Routine was comforting. _Normal_. The Functionists were defeated, and that was good. Sorting out the laws for this new existence…that was a problem for other people. 

He’d thought he’d adjusted well enough to go to the memorial, but in the end he’d lost his nerve. 

So he came down here, to this place he visited every time he came to the Deltaran Medical Facility. He lit the candles on the brackets he’d affixed to the tomb and thought about someone he hadn’t been able to save. Someone who’d done a lot of bad things in his life, but Ratchet missed him just the same. 

Someone who had adopted the name Dreddlock. But Ratchet still thought of him as Drift. 

Ratchet had heard the steps in the corridor almost too late. So few people ever came down here: this hallway’s tombs had all been closed, all of them filled with the brains and spark casings of the forsaken and forgotten. He’d risen to his feet, struggling for composure, hoping he’d look dignified when confronting the newcomer, who was probably a cleaner or security guard. 

The person had come around the corner, and immediately Ratchet’s brain had jumped to a conclusion: _Drift._

But Drift had never looked like this. The newcomer wasn’t the desperate gutter mech from Rodion, nor the hard and angry gun for hire, nor the Dreddbot he’d eventually become. This mech wore the filigree etchings, shoulder pauldrons, and cloak of a Spectralist priest. 

Ratchet wasn’t much for religion himself, but he knew that many people found comfort in it. It made sense that a priest might come to a place such as this, to conduct services or blessings for the dead. There was something to be said for a priest who would remember these people that the rest of society had forgotten. 

And Ratchet’s brain had superimposed the memory of the mech in the tomb overtop of the figure of the newcomer. 

There. A logical explanation. No mysticism necessary; no pretty lies. 

But he looked like Drift. He _moved_ like Drift. And when he turned his head towards Ratchet, his optics widened in recognition. 

Ratchet didn’t believe in ghosts, but he couldn’t help his reaction to the sight, or the sound that escaped his mouth. 

Dream. It was a dream. Dreams were full of symbology and random connections. A dream Drift could be a Spectralist priest as easily as he could be anything else. That was a logical explanation for what he was perceiving. 

He could feel the heat from the candles, and smell dust and oxidizing metal, and hear the echoes of Drift’s footfalls dying away down the corridor. His surroundings seemed solid to his senses, and yet here was this phantasm in their midst. Ratchet realized that he was uncomfortable because his dream seemed so realistic other than the impossible figure at the heart of it. 

All he had to do was wake himself up. Then he could begin processing which of his memories were real and which were part of this dream scenario. 

Ratchet moved backwards to buy himself some time. 

But the dream wasn’t letting him go. “Drift” reached out his hand, and an expression of agony crossed his features. Ratchet’s spark wrenched at the sight, even though he knew that what he was seeing couldn’t possibly be real. 

Yet his gaze slid sideways to the tomb regardless. 

DREDDLOCK, it said. Ratchet had always hated that. He’d wanted it to say DRIFT OF RODION, but he’d been afraid to draw the attention of the Functionist Council, so he hadn’t tried to change it. They were the ones who’d renamed Drift as Dreddlock. They would expect his tomb to bear the name they’d chosen. 

Ratchet supposed that he could change it, now that the Functionists were defeated. Though he’d probably have to change it to Drift of New Rodion. 

Which gave Ratchet a terrible theory that did not involve dreams. 

If there was a Drift of New Rodion, then perhaps in this universe, there was also a Drift of Rodion who’d never become a Dreddbot. Who might well have become a Spectralist priest instead. 

And all Ratchet’s attempts to avoid thinking about the other Ratchet, or about who else he knew that might have a duplicate in this brave new universe, came crashing down now that he was face-to-face with a doppelganger he was in no way prepared to confront. 

“Ratchet?” the newcomer asked, and Fortune help him, but it sounded exactly like the Drift he’d always known. 

“Drift?” Ratchet replied through lips gone numb with shock. “Is that you?” 


	3. Emergency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know if I'm sold on Drift's pet name for Ratchet, but wow does it make it a lot easier to clarify which Ratchet Drift is thinking about at any given time.

Chapter Three: Emergency 

What possible answer could Drift give? “Yeah, it’s me. Drift of Rodion.” He forced words through a voxcoder choked with static. “Are you Ratchet of _New_ Vaporex?” 

“Y-yes.” Ratchet clasped his hands. Drift wondered if they were in bad repair, the way his Ratchet’s hands had been, once upon a time. “I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“No. We haven’t.” 

It wasn’t that Drift hadn’t been _curious_. He’d encountered a few doppelgangers during his time on New Cybertron. Ravage of New Stanix was a decorated veteran of both the Liberation War, as the native population called Megatron’s revolution, and the First Insurgency, the initial rebellion against the Functionists started by the Functionist Universe’s Soundwave. Skids of New Nova Cronum and Swerve of New Helex were very active in Iacon’s Primalist congregation. Drift had met them both during joint religious services. Drift would never forget the two Swerves face to face in the same courtyard—his audios wouldn’t let him. Nobody else could get a word in edgewise. 

But while Swerve had been just fine with the idea of meeting, and chatting to, his Functionist Universe counterpart, Ratchet had always found the idea uncomfortable. He’d said he’d spoken to his doppelganger, briefly, but he hadn’t gone into detail and Drift hadn’t pressed him. Why would he? His Ratty was his life, his light. What was idle curiosity next to his conjunx endura? 

Functionist Universe Drift—if he’d ever even been created—had likely not met a good end. Drift had learned that most of the first-wave cold constructed bots were said to have been exiled. Drift didn’t know if that meant they were still wandering the far reaches of space in that other universe, or whether “exile” was a Functionist euphemism for “genocide.” Either way, Drift hadn’t gone looking to discover his counterpart’s fate. 

Now it seemed as though he’d had the right idea. That other Drift—Dreddlock—was dead and buried in a pauper’s box. 

But that other Ratchet still remembered him. 

Drift licked at his lips. It did little to relieve their dryness. 

_This isn’t your Ratty. He’s a stranger._

But he was still _Ratchet_. 

And he still remembered _his Drift._

“Did you come to see?” Ratchet asked, with a gesture towards the illuminated plaque. 

“No. I came because…” Gods, how could he say this? But how could he lie? “Because I couldn’t keep myself presentable for any more of that horrific memorial.” 

“The other Ratchet.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ratchet dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. “I hope you’re not offended that I didn’t go. I thought it might be disturbing for some of you to see me there.” He sighed. “And, in all honesty, for myself as well. It’s… _uncanny_.” 

_That was Ratty’s word._ Drift’s spark clenched. 

Drift glanced at the tomb. “Is it upsetting for you to see me here?” 

“No,” Ratchet said quickly. “It’s…you’re…” Ratchet took a deep breath. “You’re what I wish he could have been.” 

“You _wanted_ him to be a Spectralist priest.” The teasing words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. 

A moment later he wondered what he’d do if this Ratchet had found religion. 

“I wanted him to have a future,” Ratchet said quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” Drift whispered. 

“It’s all right.” Ratchet took a step closer. “I’m sorry about…about Ratchet of Vaporex.” 

Drift drew a deep breath. “Thank you. If it’s any consolation, he said that if you were lucky, the end would be one you saw coming.” 

The words were barely out of Drift’s mouth when a revelation struck him like lighting. Panic constricted his throat, set his fuel pump pounding. Adenaloids dumped into his systems, quickening his reflexes, sharpening his vision. He was ready for action. He was ready to _fight_. 

To fight for Ratchet’s life. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex rubbed his chin in a heartbreakingly familiar gesture as he contemplated what Drift had said, but Drift’s thoughts had moved on to another matter entirely. 

“Ratchet,” Drift said urgently. “Have you had a checkup lately?” 

Ratchet frowned. “I’ve been busy. Work.” He hesitated. “I feel fine.” 

“My Ratty died of age related burnout.” 

Ratchet’s optics flickered, as though the possibility had never even occurred to him. 

Of course it hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to Ratty either, until it was too late. Ratty had assumed the fatigue was the result of too much play and not enough recharge and a bit too much engex from time to time. 

Drift curled his hands into fists. “At the funeral First Aid said he could have slowed the burnout if we’d caught it soon enough and _we need to get you to the hospital right now_.” 

He grabbed Ratchet by the arm. The other mech yelped, but when Drift started dragging him down the corridor, he struggled only as long as it took for him to blow out the energon candles next to Dreddlock’s tomb. 

Drift opened a comm channel to First Aid. “I need to see you right away.” 

First Aid’s exhausted voice came across the channel. “You can’t have any more mood suppressants, Drift. We talked about this.” 

Right. Suddenly that conversation felt like a million years ago. Drift had gone to First Aid’s office to beg him for another shot. Just enough to get him through the memorial. First Aid had been reluctant. He knew Drift’s medical history. He knew mood suppressants could be addictive. First Aid had reminded him of that fact. 

Drift had said that he was aware, Ratchet had told him and had made him promise not to abuse drugs again once he was gone, but he just needed one more, First Aid, just to get through today, _please_. 

First Aid had agreed to one more shot. _But this would be the last one, Drift, do you understand?_

Drift had said yes, and then before he’d left the hospital, he’d used Ratchet’s old passcode on the doctor’s storeroom and he’d stolen a handful of shots and slipped them into his subspace. 

He’d told himself he’d only use them if he had to, to keep himself from inflicting his grief on some random passerby with blades or with fists. He’d not been sure whether or not he was lying. He wanted to keep his promise to Ratchet. No going back to drugs. No going back to violence. No going back to self-destructive behaviour. He’d promised to do his best to live and love and thrive in a world without Ratchet. 

But he didn’t know if his best was going to be anywhere near enough. 

And now it didn’t matter, because there was something far more important at stake than his _mood_. 

“It’s not for me,” Drift snapped. “It’s someone else, and it’s an emergency.” 

“Aren’t you still near the Deltaran Medical Facility? Just go to the emergency room.” 

“I need _you_ , First Aid. This one’s going to need the best doctor I can get.” 

First Aid’s sigh was audible. “I’ve got office hours tomorrow morning.” 

“It’s urgent.” Drift felt his anxiety rising. He thought of making First Aid examine Ratchet at gunpoint—his old inclinations always offering him a violent solution to his problems—but he forced those thoughts away. “Please. I’m cashing in any favours you owe me. Any favours you owe _Ratty_. Anything you ever want from me in future, it’s yours, just _please_ , _please_ say you’ll see him now.” 

First Aid sighed again, and now _he_ sounded like Ratchet. “All right. _One_ time. And _not_ for mood suppressors. For you _or_ for anyone else.” 

“Not for mood suppressors. I swear.” 

First Aid must have guessed that Drift was in no mood to be deterred. “All right. My office. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 


	4. Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my big obsession of late, so expect more of this fic over the holiday season.
> 
> *

Chapter Four: Dying 

First Aid of New Tesarus had died shortly after the Functionists had come to power, and he’d never worn a faceplate. The mech standing in front of him had such a different look and demeanour that Ratchet of New Vaporex’s brain easily accepted Chief Medical Officer First Aid of Tesarus as an entirely different person who just happened to have the same name. 

Ratchet doubted it was as easy for First Aid. The mech kept staring at him whenever he thought he wasn’t looking. 

Ratchet thought about First Aid so he wouldn’t have to think about spark burnout, or about how it had taken the life of his other self. Or about the fatigue he’d been feeling lately. The fatigue he’d been telling himself was simply the result of spending most of his waking hours in his office, taking on more and more duties, inventing tasks when he ran out of work. He knew he was working too hard. But the alternative was coming home to an empty apartment and an empty life. No, he’d rather work himself to death. 

Or so he’d thought. 

“You’re lucky,” First Aid said at last. 

Ratchet relaxed. “So I’m not in the preliminary stages of spark burnout.” Funny how he felt relieved, even though he told himself he’d have no regrets about wearing his body out in the name of his vocation. 

“Actually, you _are_.” First Aid handed him a datapad—one of the patient fact sheets—and a bag of vials. “The _very first_ stage.” 

Ratchet’s voxcoder seized in a burst of static. 

“The one where the damage is still entirely reversible,” First Aid continued. “The one we almost never catch because the symptoms are so subtle.” His gaze locked on Ratchet’s, and Ratchet knew what he was trying to say. 

“Drift saved my life.” 

First Aid nodded. “I can only assume you lived a somewhat easier life than the Ratchet I knew. Your case hasn’t progressed nearly as far.” 

Ratchet had not thought of his life as _easy_ before, but when he considered what he knew of the other Ratchet’s history, he had to concede the point. “He survived four million years of war,” Ratchet said quietly. “I don’t know how I survived eight hundred years of war. Four million is a…a preposterous length of time to live in combat conditions.” Yet many mechs had lived in those conditions for far longer, thanks to the Functionists. 

First Aid narrowed his optics. “Nevertheless, you still need to learn to take better care of yourself. Take this medication as instructed, cut back on your workload, follow the regimen on that datapad, and the odds are greater than 99.9 percent that you’ll die of something else long before your spark burns out.” 

Ratchet’s fuel tank turned over. Funny how he’d said he didn’t care so much if he died, and yet, being faced with the truth that he really _had_ started dying and he hadn’t even _noticed_ …something about that terrified him. 

“Thank you,” he managed to say. 

“Don’t mention it,” First Aid responded. “Just…” The Chief Medical Officer looked as though he was trying to decide what he should say next. “It was Drift, as much as me. If you want to thank him, you won’t take advantage of that.” 

Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure what First Aid meant, and before he could ask, First Aid opened his office door. 

Out in the waiting room, Drift was pacing, and Ratchet could not help noticing how beautiful he was, how _alive_ , even in his agitation. He wheeled around when he heard the door open, his optics darting between Ratchet and First Aid. The question in his optics was obvious.   
“I’m going to make a full recovery,” Ratchet said. 

Relief on those handsome features. “Thanks for seeing him, Doc.” 

Ratchet felt a funny sensation in the bottom of his fuel tank. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. 

“You’re welcome,” First Aid said, but he was still watching Drift with a critical expression on his face, as though he were evaluating him. 

Drift bit his lip. “First Aid. I have something for you.” He reached into subspace, pulled out a handful of syringes, and pressed them into First Aid’s hands. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s what I stole from your supplies the last time I was here.” Drift looked First Aid full in the visor while he confessed. “I’m giving it back because I promised Ratty I wouldn’t lose myself in drugs after he was gone. I’m sorry I violated your trust. But I swear that’s everything I took. I’m going to keep my promise. To him, and to you. No more mood suppressants.” Drift exhaled, and Ratchet felt his spark twist. “Also, you need better security.” 

While he was in First Aid’s office, Ratchet had almost convinced himself that this Drift was no more like _his_ Drift than Chief Medical Officer First Aid was like that nervous intern who’d fallen in with a criminal crowd—Ravage and Soundwave and the rest of the First Insurgency—and died in the Clampdown, when the Functionists had crushed the nascent resistance with an iron fist. This Drift was a respected professional, albeit in a profession that Ratchet had little practical use for, save for the occasional ceremonial function. He’d always been disturbed by mechs who turned to faith based advisors for counselling and such. That kind of guidance was better conducted by a licensed psychologist than a woo-woo religious leader. Still, flaky spiritualism aside, this Drift seemed to have nothing to do with the violent addict that became Dreddlock. 

Until just now. When he returned the stolen drugs and made a promise with an all too familiar look in his optics. The look that made Ratchet question whether he’d be able to keep his word. The expression that suggested that Drift himself wondered too. 

“Are you all right?” First Aid asked. 

“You know I’m not.” Drift’s words were angry. Bitter. Delivered with a curl of the lip and, yes, a flash of fang and an implied threat. 

Not good, and yet Ratchet felt his spark grow warm. 

“You shouldn’t be alone.” First Aid’s words were flat. 

Ratchet wasn’t sure what possessed him to speak. “He won’t be.” 

Both of them turned to stare at him. 

First Aid spoke first. “Are you sure that’s a wise…” 

Ratchet cut him off. “He saved my life. I owe him.” He looked at Drift, holding his breath, wondering if Drift was going to argue with him. 

“Let’s go,” Drift said curtly. 

Ratchet barely had a chance to shout a “thank you” over his shoulder as he followed Drift out of the building. Before he knew it, he was standing on the street, a bag of medication and a datapad with information about preventing spark burnout in his hands, and a ghost at his side. 

“Where are we going?” Ratchet asked. 

Drift wrung his hands in a gesture that was heartbreakingly familiar. It was what he did whenever he was about to say something he knew Ratchet wouldn’t approve of. “Your place, I hope.” 

“That’s not a good idea,” Ratchet stammered. 

“What, you want to go to _my_ place?” Drift retorted. “Where all _you’ll_ see is echoes of someone who’s not quite you and all _I’ll_ see is the temptation to close my eyes and pretend you’re my Ratty?” 

_They lived together._ A question that Ratchet hadn’t quite dared to think about, let alone ask, tore its way out of his voxcoder. “Drift. What was he to you?” 

Drift hung his head, dimmed his optics. “He was my conjunx endura.” 

It was everything Ratchet had hoped for and his worst nightmare, all at the same time. 

A Drift that could love a mech like him. A Drift that had recovered enough from his addictions and his demons to make a life with that mech. 

And yet, that mech still wasn’t Ratchet of New Vaporex. It wasn’t _him_. He was jealous and he hated himself for it. It mattered more that Drift was healthy and happy. 

First Aid’s instincts had probably been correct. “Maybe we shouldn’t…” Yet Ratchet didn’t particularly want to be alone, not after just finding out how close he’d come to terminal illness, and it wasn’t as though he had anyone else in his life to turn to. He’d had only a few friends who’d stuck by him when he’d joined Megatron’s revolution, and he’d pushed them away in the centuries since, avoiding them in favour of work. 

“You heard First Aid. I can’t be alone. I promised my Ratty I wouldn’t…wouldn’t go cruising down to the Dead End and beat up the first junkie I see and get myself fendered on his stash in a gutter somewhere.” Drift said this in the voice of someone who knew he was entirely capable of doing all those things. And not just capable, but _tempted_. 

This was the Drift that Ratchet of New Vaporex knew, and Ratchet also knew that he could never deny him. Because this Drift was sincerely asking for his help, in a way that his own Drift never had. 

“I suppose my apartment _is_ better than that,” Ratchet admitted. “Just…don’t be disappointed. It’s not ready for company.” 

“Pfft. Like I’d care.” 

“I don’t think you understand,” Ratchet said slowly. “I haven’t had company for a very long time.” 


	5. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's supporting this fic. It's how I've come to terms with the end of Lost Light.

Chapter Five: Empty 

Drift hadn’t understood why Ratchet had been so worried about his apartment. After all, Drift had slept in condemned buildings and on park benches and under loading docks, and on battlefields slick with the blood he’d spilled. He wasn’t the kind of person to make judgments about someone’s living quarters. 

Until he saw the place. 

It wasn’t that it was run-down. It was well-worn, certainly, and old and rather tired-looking, and it needed a fresh coat of paint, but it was decently clean and perfectly functional. 

It was also practically empty. 

Oh, there was the expected clutter of medical books and datapads on the desk, and a pile of dirty mugs and platters in the kitchen next to the energon dispenser, and a tangle of tarps on the berth, but other than that it was almost devoid of personal touches. No knick-knacks, no art on the walls, no signs of what Ratchet did for relaxation or entertainment. 

It was just like Ratchet’s hab suite on the _Lost Light_ had been, at the very beginning of the quest: spartan and bare save for work-related items. By the end, Ratchet’s hab was full of souvenirs and gifts and light entertainment: movies and music and books, board games and card games, and the little action figures that he and Ten had made. And, of course, Drift’s prayer mat and a rack for his swords and a Spectralist shrine and his incense in an engraved box, and the emergency stash of fuel that he kept tucked under the berth, because he slept better knowing there was always going to be something on hand to eat if he woke up hungry. 

Drift had lived so long in a home that reflected the life he shared with Ratchet, that he’d almost forgotten what Ratchet had been like beforehand. _This_ Ratchet had not changed the way his Ratty had. This Ratchet still buried himself in his job, to the exclusion of all else. 

It made his spark ache to think of it. 

Ratchet had seen him looking around. He stood off to the side of the front door, fretting. “I tried to tell you,” he said, and he looked ashamed. 

It wasn’t the reaction Ratty would have given. _His_ Ratchet would have snapped something about being too busy to waste time fussing with his quarters, and turned his fearsome scowl on anyone who pressed the issue. 

But this Ratchet hadn’t run afoul of Bludgeon, or battled the Decepticons for four million years. _This_ Ratchet had survived four million years of totalitarian government, and who knew what else. Drift realized that he really didn’t know his host very well at all. Still, he could tell that Ratchet of New Vaporex was anxious and worried. 

“It’s okay,” Drift said. “You know, I’ve seen your place like this before?” 

Ratchet looked stricken. 

Suddenly, Drift realized what he’d said. “Oh, Primus, I’m sorry. I mean I saw _his_ place like…” 

Ratchet winced, turned his face away. 

Drift felt panic seize his spark as he rushed to Ratchet’s side. “Please. I was trying to reassure you…” Drift needed Ratchet to understand that he’d had good intentions. But those good intentions hadn’t stopped him from hurting Ratchet by accident. 

_You’re a double-edged sword, aren’t you? Cutting everyone you touch. All these years and you haven’t really changed at all._

_You loved the Ratchet who let you forget the truth of you._

Drift pushed the voice away. Clarifying his intent wasn’t important right now. He needed to prove to Ratchet that he would do better. 

He took Ratchet’s hand, and Ratchet finally looked at him. 

“I know you’re not him,” Drift whispered. “So I promise to listen to what you have to say. And I need to ask you questions, and make sure that I don’t presume things about you just because I think I know you, when really I don’t know you well at all.” 

Ratchet’s optics shimmered sadly. “Are we going to mess each other up?” 

Drift drew in a deep breath through his vents. “I don’t think so. I mean, we’re not the first people to go through this.” 

“Oh. Yes. I saw that news segment too. Horri-Bull and his two Needlenoses. How he’s petitioning that he should be allowed to be legal conjunx endurae with both of them.” 

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” Drift said softly. “On the _Lost Light_ …there was an accident with the quantum engines and we…we quantum duplicated ourselves. It’s a long story but… _our_ Rewind died, _their_ Chromedome died…” 

_Their you died. Their me died. But at least they died together._

Drift paused, wondering if Ratchet of New Vaporex even knew who Rewind and Chromedome were. But Ratchet said nothing, so Drift pressed on. “When they crossed paths, it was…Chromedome told me that he had to keep in mind that _this_ Rewind wasn’t exactly the same person as the one he’d lost, and he couldn’t expect him to be, but in the end…in the end they loved each other and it worked out.” 

Ratchet closed his hand over Drift’s, but his optics still shimmered. 

A hideous revelation took Drift’s breath away. For a moment he couldn’t speak. When he finally did, the words tore up his throat, ripping their way from his lips. 

“You didn’t think of your Drift that way, did you.” 

“I _couldn’t_.” Now Ratchet looked as though he were in pain. “He was my _patient_. He was an addict, and he was a victim…a victim of a corrupt government who wanted to exile everyone who was cold-constructed. When they came to him and said they’d make him exempt if he joined their security forces…that wasn’t a _choice_. They _coerced_ him.” 

Drift wasn’t so sure. After all, he’d chosen to join Megatron of his own free will. He didn’t think that he’d been coerced. He’d definitely been angry and bloodthirsty enough to embrace a life as an enforcer. 

But he had to remember that Drift of New Rodion had walked a different path. Megatron certainly hadn’t been threatening to exile Drift off-planet if he didn’t do what he said. Drift had no way of knowing if that other Drift had been angry and self-loathing enough to embrace Functionism as a true believer the way he’d embraced Decepticonism, or whether that other Drift had made a choice for his own survival, and everyone else be damned. Because Drift had done that too, and remembered what that desperation felt like. 

“I told myself he was my…maybe my friend, perhaps merely the recipient of my duty of care.” Ratchet squeezed Drift’s hand. “And yet…I think, on a subconscious level—so deep I wouldn’t even let myself consider the possibility—I think on some level I _must_ have felt an attraction to him, because otherwise I…” His voice broke. “Otherwise I wouldn’t find myself feeling so jealous of what the other Ratchet had with you.” He offered Drift the saddest of smiles. 

Drift felt his spark flare with hope, but Ratchet wasn’t done. 

“It’s an illusion, isn’t it? Because when it comes right down to it, we’re strangers.” 

“Rewind and Chromedome,” Drift protested. 

“Had been separate from their counterparts for how long?” 

“Um…a year and a half?” Drift guessed, and suddenly felt sick. 

Ratchet released Drift’s hand. “That’s a lot fewer than four million and change.” 

Drift balled his hands into fists. “So _what_. Maybe you’re right…maybe we _are_ strangers…but that doesn’t change the fact that I know the _heart_ of you. I know what kind of person you are and I _care about you_. I don’t know you well enough to love you but I _care about you_.” 


	6. No Meaning

Chapter Six: No Meaning 

Ratchet felt his spark wrench. 

_I care about you._

It had been a long time since he’d heard anyone say anything like that to him. Oh, a lot of people had _thanked_ him, even been grateful for him, but there was something about Drift’s words that made it clear he didn’t mean them in any kind of professional capacity. Ratchet could be retired from medicine and yet he knew, even without proof, that Drift would still say those words to him and mean them. 

The floor felt unsteady under Ratchet’s feet. 

“Let’s sit,” he said, shuffling towards the couch. Even as he moved he found himself second guessing his actions. Sitting—more intimate than standing, wasn’t it? 

_We can’t just stand and stare at each other all night_ . 

Ratchet sat on the couch, and Drift sat down next to him, far enough to be more than appropriate, close enough for Ratchet to feel the warmth of his frame even though they weren’t touching. Ratchet felt his spark flutter and, as if in counterpoint, his rational mind interjected a stern warning. 

“If, ah, if this type of encounter is something that happened between your Rewind and Chromedome, then why was First Aid so concerned about me looking after you tonight?” 

Drift snorted. “He’s probably afraid one of us might be tempted to take advantage of the other. Who knows which.” His expression turned sad. “Because I could have you at my mercy with a few well-placed threats. And you could have me with a smile.” 

Ratchet’s rational voice fell silent as his fuel tank plummeted and his mind whirled, wondering which of those two horrors to parse first. His sense of self-preservation made the choice for him. “Have you…did you…” 

“No. _Never_ ,” Drift said vehemently. 

Ratchet supposed he could be lying, but he wanted desperately to believe him. 

“What hurts,” Drift continued, “is that nobody would put it past me. Not even _First Aid_. Not even my _friends_. Not even _now_ , after all those years. But the answer is no. Not as Deadlock, not now, not _ever_.” He hugged himself. “I’m not a good person. But never _that_.” 

That was enough proof for Ratchet. He reached over and took Drift’s hand. “I believe you.” 

Drift looked up at him, his optics searching Ratchet’s expression. Ratchet swore he could see both hope and fear written on Drift’s face as he looked for the condemnation he was afraid he’d find, and saw only warmth reflected back at him. 

“I’m not a good person,” Drift repeated brokenly. 

“You’re trying,” Ratchet said gently, “aren’t you? Isn’t that all we can ask of ourselves? To do our best?” 

The words stung on their way out of his mouth. Had _he_ done his best? Would Dreddlock still be alive if he’d been a bit more understanding, a bit more assertive, a bit more persistent? He’d certainly dithered long enough about joining Megatron’s Liberators in the Liberation War. He’d had the privilege of being able to hem and haw, living safely as a mechanism with an essential function, while others fought for their very right to exist. He’d known he’d get a slap on the wrist for behaviours that would get others executed. 

And he was dithering now, wondering if being here with Drift of Rodion was right or wrong, when in his spark he already knew what he was going to do, right or wrong be damned. 

Ratchet could tell himself that Drift was with him because it was a bad idea to leave a grieving addict unattended, but while that statement might be factually true, it wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was that Drift’s presence felt like a blazing fire – beautiful, deadly, but so very warm – and Ratchet, the Insecticon inexorably drawn to it. Whether Drift would thaw him, save him, or destroy him utterly, Ratchet did not know, but he understood that his resolve had already broken, that he was past the point of no return. 

_You could have me with a smile_ , Drift had said, apparently ignorant of the fact that the description matched Ratchet just as well. 

“I can’t do it alone,” Drift said, his lip quivering. “I try so hard but…I just can’t be at loose ends.” His next words were so staticky that Ratchet had to strain to catch what he said. “Because I have to work so hard and I…I get so _tired_ …and if I slack off, if I give in, if I make a mistake…then someone else ends up _dead_.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “Or, if I’m _lucky_ , I wake up in a gutter covered in energon and all the blood is mine.” 

Drift moved so quickly that Ratchet was caught entirely unprepared when the white speedster buried his face in his hands. 

“I’m too dangerous, I can’t afford to make mistakes. I can’t ask anyone else to pay the price for my failures and I…I can’t hold myself back alone.” Drift’s optics streamed with light. “And I don’t feel I even have the right to ask for help. Who wants to be saddled with a monster like me?” 

“I wish I could have fixed you,” Ratchet whispered, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Drift of Rodion, or to Dreddlock. “I’m so very sorry.” 

“You can’t _fix_ me.” Drift pulled his hands away to look at Ratchet face-to-face, and he put them over Ratchet’s. “And you couldn’t _fix_ Dreddlock, either. Other people’s choices aren’t your responsibility. You know that, right?” 

Ratchet nodded dumbly. He knew it, yes, but he didn’t quite _feel_ it. “So if I can’t fix you, why are you here?” 

“Because I care about you and I need help remembering why I should keep trying to do better. Why I shouldn’t just give up and drag everyone else down to oblivion with me. This isn’t going to sound good coming from a priest, but tonight, religion’s ringing a little hollow. I still feel so _angry…_ at people in general, at the universe, at _everything_ …and I just need one person I know is good, one person who’s worth fighting _for_ …because I can’t see a person like that in the mirror.” Drift coiled his hands into fists and clenched them so tightly that Ratchet could hear the metal dent. It had to hurt, but Drift gritted his teeth against the pain and pushed down harder still. “I’m here because someone once told me that without love there is no meaning.” 

Ratchet reached out and pulled the other mech into his arms. “Don’t,” he whispered in Drift’s audio. “I can’t sit here and watch you hurt yourself.” 

“I miss him,” Drift said, and then he threw his arms around Ratchet of New Vaporex and buried his face in Ratchet’s shoulder. “I miss him _so much_.” 


	7. Lesser Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how we start the new year....with Dratchet.

Chapter Seven: Lesser Evil 

Drift pressed his face against Ratchet of New Vaporex and _bawled_. 

He hadn’t cried like this in…he couldn’t remember. He supposed the first night he’d learned that Ratchet’s spark burnout was irreversible. They’d both had a good cry, but after that, there’d been relatively few tears. Neither of them had chosen to waste the now numbered days they had together with premature and fruitless grief. Ratchet had wanted to make the most of the rest of his life. Drift had wanted to make memories to sustain him when Ratchet was gone. 

But memories had proven thin after Ratchet had died. 

Drift had fallen into a sort of emotional limbo since his final night at Ratchet’s bedside. He guessed that the mood suppressors were partly to blame. Still, his _calming_ meditations might not have been the healthiest choice either. He’d been so fixated on keeping himself together, on being responsible while the funeral was organized and on being presentable during the ceremonies, that he’d buried his emotions almost entirely. No wonder they were now rising from an unquiet grave and threatening disaster if he didn’t placate them with violence or obliterate them with drugs. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex had offered him an opportunity to relieve some of that internal pressure, and now that the dam was open, there was no more holding back. Drift knew he must make an ugly sight. His optics leaked fluids down his face. There was no point in resetting them; they streamed light the second they came back online. His nose was leaking, too, and he felt wetness all around his mouth. His face was surely screwed up in a grimace. He clutched Ratchet as though the medic were a life pod in the vastness of space. His whole frame shook as guttural sobs spouted up his throat and out his mouth. His abdomen hadn’t hurt like this since the last time he’d taken a kick in it. He felt as though his body had been torn wide open. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex held him close and let him mourn. 

He wanted _Ratty_. He’d do anything if he could have Ratty back. He’d die; he’d kill; he’d lay waste to the universe. Except Ratty wouldn’t have wanted any of that. Even if a God had shown up who’d been willing to take such a bargain, Drift wouldn’t do it, because Ratty wouldn’t have wanted it. 

But Ratty’s death had ripped out the heart of him, and Drift wondered whether there was anything left worth salvaging. 

He cried, for a world gone dimmer without Ratty’s light, and for himself, lost in the twilight. 

He realized, as he sobbed, that he could not mourn for Ratchet. Not really. Ratchet had said it himself: the end came for everyone, and he’d been fortunate enough to see it coming in time to set his affairs in order. That he’d lived well and left the world better than he’d found it. 

Then he’d looked at Drift and smiled and said that without love, there was no meaning. 

Drift pushed himself even harder against Ratchet of New Vaporex. His breath hitched; his trembling slackened; and his thoughts ebbed into oblivion. 

* 

Drift had never been a deep sleeper. Not even his exhaustion could overcome behaviours programmed into him by centuries of living rough. He’d only just dozed off, but the feeling of a tarp brushing against his cheek startled him awake. 

The surface underneath him was oddly soft. His optics came online. He was lying on a berth, with a figure standing over him. Alarm dumped adrenaloids into his system. Waking up in strangers’ beds had rarely worked out well for him. 

Fortunately, there was a recharge cable affixed to his chest. Most mechs didn’t bother popping on a cable unless they actually intended for him to recharge. 

But wardens sometimes recharged their prisoners, and slavemasters still recharged their slaves. 

Drift bolted to a sitting position, scanning his surroundings. 

His Great Sword and his cape rested against the wall next to the headboard of the berth. 

And the silhouette at his bedside was heart-rending in its familiarity. 

“Ratchet?” he asked, confused, because one voice in his head told him that was impossible and another told him that was correct. The silhouette standing over him didn’t look quite right. This wasn’t Ratchet’s current shape. This was his older form, like a memory given life. 

“You need to recharge,” Ratchet said, gruffly but firmly. “You probably haven’t slept in, what, weeks?” 

How long…? 

Definitely not since the funeral, and not when he was preparing for the funeral, and certainly not in the last days of his conjunx endura’s life when he’d been sitting vigil at his bedside. Even before, during the palliative stage, Drift had slept poorly, usually in waiting room chairs or empty hospital beds or, on occasion, on his couch at home, his comms turned up to maximum volume so as not to miss a summons from the hospital. He knew he was exhausted, but he’d kept going until he’d ended up here with… 

_Oh._

That figure at his bedside was _a_ Ratchet, but not _his_ Ratchet. 

His Ratchet was gone. 

Drift hiccupped and choked back a sob. 

It was all he could do to nod in the affirmative. 

“It’s okay,” Ratchet of New Vaporex said gently. “You need to lie down and recharge.” 

Drift knew that was true. He’d probably get the best sleep he’d have in a long time, here in this berth that smelled as though it could be his Ratty’s. 

Yet his instincts warned him that something was amiss. 

“What about you?” Drift said, to buy time. 

“I can crash on the couch.” Ratchet hooked his fingers into his abdominal plates. “Fortune knows I do it often enough when I’m on call at the hospital.” 

Instead of dimming his optics and slipping back into sleep, Drift clenched his fists while he wracked his brain for the source of the amber warning lights glinting in the corners of his vision. He felt perfectly safe in Ratchet of New Vaporex’s apartment. The danger sense creeping over him wasn’t for his own safety; it was for Ratchet’s. 

Drift’s memory banks came online and he recalled the events of the evening. 

“No,” Drift said, rolling onto his side. “ _You’re_ the one who got diagnosed with preliminary spark burnout today. _You’re_ the one who has to take care of himself in order to recover. You need this berth more than I do.” 

“Except that _your_ problem is more than fatigue, Mr. I-Stole-Mood-Suppressors, and _you_ need to rest up so your frame is equipped to resist your addiction trying to get its claws back into you.” He stuck out his chin and put his hands on his hips and looked so much like Ratty that Drift… 

…well, Drift stood up and snapped at him. “And _your_ problem is that you still haven’t learned how to help others without sacrificing yourself, because that’s _your_ addiction—putting everyone else ahead of yourself.” 

Ratchet blinked. 

“Well, not this time.” Drift grabbed Ratchet of New Vaporex by the arm. “This berth has a double hookup, so _you_ are going to lie down and get quality recharge, and if you come quietly then I’ll…” Drift drew in a ragged breath. “Then I’ll play nice and agree to do the same.” 

Ratchet’s lower lip trembled. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said as his knees folded and he allowed Drift to pull him down into a sitting position on the berth. 

“There aren’t any good ideas here,” Drift retorted. “Just bad ones and worse ones.” He hooked the second recharge cable up to Ratchet’s chest. “So when _you_ on the couch means spark burnout and _me_ on the couch means me sneaking out in the dark hours of the night in search of mood suppressors, then this is really the least of three evils.” 

Ratchet sighed and bowed his head, knowing when he was beaten. 


	8. Illuminating

Chapter Eight: Illuminating 

Ratchet lay very still in his berth, feeling the warmth of another frame resting next to his, and tried very hard not to make this situation weird. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d had someone he barely knew in his berth, he told himself sternly. Although those other times had been very long ago and for much different reasons. He couldn’t pretend that Drift was a fling. 

No _fling_ could ever haunt his thoughts for millions of years. 

Ratchet tried to tell himself that the “ghost” in his memories was someone else. Not this Drift at all. Someone else, someone entirely different, who’d slipped away from him, drawn down into a vortex of violence and destruction by the Functionists and his own addictions. 

_Dreddlock._

But this person in his berth had sought out his support to stop from going back to the mood suppressors. 

He didn’t look like the Drift that Ratchet of New Vaporex imagined in his fantasies. That Drift was similar to the gutter mech that Orion Pax had brought to his clinic in the Dead End, but in better physical repair and much more mentally stable. He was clean and polished, with his armour undented, his finials straight and sharp, his optics sparkling a clear and healthy blue, and his lips curved into a smile. 

Ratchet’s imagination would never have decorated Drift’s frame with Spectralist symbols, or painted ceremonial red markings down his cheeks, or armed him with an old and ornate sword. 

In the four million years since their respective timelines had diverged, Drift had become someone Ratchet could never have imagined. 

And he was stubborn, and frustrating, but _wonderful_. 

Ratchet let out his breath slowly, wondering if it was wrong of him to stay awake and watch Drift recharging. It was definitely unwise. 

He was _sick_. He’d had a close brush with mortality today, and he wasn’t recovered yet. He could still die of spark burnout if he didn’t take better care of himself. He needed to come to terms with the fact that he’d started _dying_. 

So why did it feel as though he’d started _living_? 

He’d been existing in a solitary limbo for so long. Since the war ended, he’d smothered his emotions with work so he wouldn’t have to cope with them or their implications. Drift’s arrival hadn’t just saved his life in a physical sense; it had lit up his existence, like opening the shutters in a room that had been locked up for centuries. 

He wanted to live because he suddenly found himself faced with the promise of a life worth living. 

Ratchet of New Vaporex reminded himself not to be too hasty. One person, no matter how wonderful, couldn’t be his sole reason for existence. Tomorrow he’d start reaching out to his old friends, mending bridges that he’d allowed to fall into disrepair. Tomorrow he’d look beyond his work at the hospital to see what he could do to help with the integration of New Cybertron into this brave new universe. No matter what happened with Drift, he couldn’t let himself fall back into that…that _purgatory_ he’d been surviving in since the war ended. 

And he couldn’t get his hopes up about Drift. The mech was in mourning for his conjunx, after all. It was far, far too soon for Ratchet to get any ideas. Particularly when Ratchet of New Vaporex was nothing but a shadow of the mech that other Ratchet had been. 

Beside him, Drift stirred. 

_He’s caught you staring._

Ratchet opened his lips to apologize, but the words never made it out of his voxcoder. 

Drift rolled onto his side, slid his arm over Ratchet’s chest, rested his cheek against Ratchet’s shoulder, and sighed happily. His lips curved into a smile that was so similar to the smile of the Drift who lived in Ratchet of New Vaporex’s imagination. 

Ratchet felt his spark twist, because Drift was probably dreaming of his conjunx. But Ratchet saw no use in waking him up to tell him so. 

_You’re taking advantage of him_ . 

But when Drift nuzzled him, Ratchet held still and let him. 

_Would Dreddlock have ever trusted you this much?_

A moment later, Drift grew still as he slipped deeper into recharge. Ratchet let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He felt relieved and disappointed at once. The tumult in his thoughts reduced his sense of ethics to a wildly swinging compass, utterly useless for navigation. 

He had influence on Drift far beyond what he ought to, solely because the other Ratchet had been Drift’s conjunx. 

But Drift had been the one to drag him to see First Aid. Drift had saved his life. And Drift had turned to him for help with his addictions. 

Ratchet took a deep breath. Whenever he couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t compromised, the only ethical thing to do was to assume that he _was_ compromised. Tomorrow he would help Drift find a support network. Surely the mech had other friends. 

Tomorrow. 

But for tonight… 

It wasn’t every day you found out you were dying, and it wasn’t every day your life was saved by someone who was, if not a literal ghost, still very much someone you’d thought lost forever. Ratchet had read enough history to know the point in history when the two timelines had diverged. He didn’t know enough quantum physics to understand if this Drift had been repaired by _his_ Ratchet in a parallel universe, or if at that time this Drift and Dreddlock had been the same person, if he and the other Ratchet had also once been one person, before the timelines had split. If the second…then this _was_ his Drift, and Drift’s conjunx had at one point been _him_. 

Quantum ethics. Someone needed to study it. 

Ratchet would sort out the new parameters of his new life in the morning. For tonight, Ratchet was tired, and Drift’s frame was beautifully warm, snuggled up against his side, and it wasn’t every day you narrowly escaped death. 

Ratchet dimmed his optics. Tonight, rest. Tomorrow, it was time to wake up and start living. 

* 

Ratchet woke up to the unusual feeling of warmth against his side. 

Pharma had never been a cuddler, even during the good years early in their relationship. He was always far too busy to linger in the berth in the mornings. Places to go, things to do, people to meet. 

People more interesting than Ratchet, in the end. More exciting. More ambitious. 

Officially, Ratchet and Pharma had parted ways when Ratchet had become involved with Megatron’s revolution. Pharma had not wanted to risk his comfortable and glamorous life by getting involved with another tawdry little rebellion that, he said, would be crushed as thoroughly as Soundwave’s. Remember what happened to First Aid of Tesarus, and all that. 

But in practice, Pharma and Ratchet’s relationship had come undone centuries before. Pharma had his dalliances, and Ratchet buried his head in paperwork, pretending to others that he didn’t know, pretending to himself that he didn’t care. 

Ratchet had been somewhat wild in his youth—the party ambulance, his friends had called him—and it was that spirit he’d tried to recapture when he’d walked out on Pharma. Plenty of affairs, but never a courtmate. He hadn’t dared. It was war, and the revolution was short-staffed; the mech in his berth one night could be the mech on his slab the next morning. He couldn’t let himself get emotionally attached. It was bad enough that he went to their berths. But, again, it was war, and it was common for mechanisms to reach out for the temporary comfort of a one-night partner. 

He’d blamed the war for the reason why his affairs post-Pharma had not really felt like fun. _Desperation_ was a more accurate word. Comfort for his partners and…what for him? Not pleasure, not really. Consolation, perhaps, that he could provide for others a temporary dose of something he could never find for himself. 

He preferred not to think about the centuries that had gone by since the war had ended. No more need to comfort soldiers; no reassurance that he could still do some good for others, beyond his administrative duties at the hospital. He’d been like a protoform in stasis, existing without truly living. 

Until… 

Ratchet lit his optics with a start and stared at his berthmate. No, he hadn’t dreamed it. That was really Drift of Rodion curled up against him in his berth. 

To his shock, Drift was awake. He was laying on his side, his head propped up on the pillow, watching Ratchet with a soft smile on his lips. 

How long had Drift been watching him sleep? 

A warm feeling rose in his spark. Ratchet stomped on it, hard. 

_He’s pretending you’re his conjunx, you old fool._

“Good morning, Ratchet of New Vaporex,” Drift murmured. 

_He knows exactly who I am_ , Ratchet realized, and with that, the warmth sprung up anew, undeterred. He felt as though his spark was illuminating him from the inside out. 


	9. Incredulous

Chapter Nine: Incredulous 

Drift saw the incredulous look in Ratchet’s optics. 

As though Drift hadn’t been reciting over and over in his head ever since he woke up, _he’s not your conjunx, he’s not Ratty._

It should have felt wrong to be lying in a stranger’s berth. 

“How are you feeling?” Drift murmured. 

“Fi…” Ratchet cut off the lie. “Shaken,” he admitted. “It’s not every day you find out you’re dying.” His optics travelled over Drift’s frame, as though it wasn’t every day that he found himself in berth with… 

_With the double of the mech whose tomb he lights candles on._

“You’re not dying,” Drift said firmly. Primus, he couldn’t even begin to cope with losing Ratchet a second time. “Take care of yourself and you’ll recover.” 

Drift knew his Ratty would have needed his help and support to follow First Aid’s instructions, but he couldn’t presume that this Ratchet would do the same. He’d promised to ask questions. “You _are_ going to do as First Aid instructed, aren’t you?” 

Ratchet sat up and spluttered. “Of _course_ I’m….” His words slowed. “…probably going to do an awful job of it,” he admitted slowly. 

“Try?” Drift asked, rising as well and taking Ratchet’s hands in his. “For me?” 

“Or what? You’ll move in here and police me?” 

“It’d be a good distraction,” Drift admitted, “from all my vices.” 

_Could I? Could I really just move in with him?_

Ratchet stared at him for a moment, then said softly, “Isn’t it too soon?” 

Drift felt stung. 

Because Ratchet’s memorial at the hospital had been yesterday. His funeral, just a few days ago. Who moved in with a new courtmate the same week as their beloved conjunx’s funeral? 

A horrible person, that’s who. 

_I_ am _a bad person_ , Drift argued, and for once he was glad of it. It gave him an excuse to do what he wanted to do, no matter what public opinion would think of him for it. 

“I can’t lose you all over again,” Drift said quietly. “I don’t care what it takes. And I don’t care what anyone else says about me.” 

Ratchet was still looking at him with that expression that meant _my ethics won’t let me do what I want to do_. “I’m not sure it would be good for you. You have…” His voice cracked. “A mourning period to work through.” 

Drift sighed. Ratchet was probably right. Ratty had always been the more grounded of the two of them. “I guess moving in here would be way too easy. Instead of going back home to…to learn to live as a widower.” He looked up. “Is there anyone else who can support you?” 

There. He’d gotten the words out without curling his lips and flashing his fangs and letting Ratchet know exactly how jealous he would be of anyone else in Ratchet of New Vaporex’s life. 

Ratchet scrubbed at his face. “I suppose. I’ve been out of touch with a lot of people since the war, but I’ll bet at least some of them would stop by if I asked.” 

“Yeah, I know that feeling.” Drift thought about the _Lost Light_ and felt the sharp edge of jealousy fade into a wistful nostalgia. 

“And what about you? Who are you going to be reaching out to?” Ratchet said it as though it were an order or something, and Drift couldn’t help a smile. 

“Me and Ratty signed up for a mission on a space ship and we were gone from Cybertron for years. I feel like the people on that ship were, well, they were like family. Except after the mission ended, there were only a few we kept in contact with, and it seemed like the longer we were here on New Cybertron, the less we all saw each other.” All of a sudden his throat closed, and he had to fight back tears. “It took Ratty’s funeral to bring us all together for a reunion.” 

“How, um, how did that go?” Ratchet sounded awkward. Of course he did. The whole situation could not be made anything other than awkward. 

“It was a nice service.” Drift paused. “I probably should reach out to Cyclonus and Tailgate. They’d help me keep it together.” He hesitated again. “Rodimus is gone on Thunderclash’s ship.” He glanced over at Ratchet. “Do you know who any of those people are?” 

Ratchet shook his head no. 

Drift wondered what had happened to them in the universe where Ratchet was from. He imagined Cyclonus, forever trapped in the Dead Universe; Tailgate, dead of cybercrosis somewhere under the Mitteous Plateau; and Rodimus, his hot spot an experimental playground for the Functionist Council. It made him shiver. “Poor Rodimus.” 

“Someone you were close to?” Ratchet asked. 

“We were a lot like amica endura, once. Though we never got around to formalizing it.” Drift thought about that. “I wish we had.” 

“He cares about you?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to call him about…my problems now. He has enough problems of his own.” Drift bit his lip. “I’m worried about him, Ratchet. He’s overenergizing a lot and way too often. Ever since we got back from the mission he’s been…drifting. Like he’s trying too hard to recapture everything he was when he was the captain of his own ship.” 

“You should talk to him anyway. Even if you can’t lean on him right now. He needs to know someone cares.” Ratchet offered a small smile. “I’m not sure whether to advise you that caring for others can help you to find meaning and focus in your own life, or whether that’s just me.” 

“Yeah. I think you’re right.” Drift found himself examining Ratchet’s face in detail, drinking in all those features he thought he’d never see again. “So where does that leave us?” 

Ratchet wove his fingers together. “I…should probably let you go live your life.” 

Those words felt like a slap. “Is that what you want?” The words came out harsher than Drift had intended. 

“No.” Ratchet set his jaw stubbornly. “But I can’t mess you up because of what I want. I need to reconnect with my friends, and you need to reach out to yours.” 

“And how come we can’t do that and still stay in touch?” 

“What would your Ratchet think? What would anyone you know think if they knew you were here in my berth the day after Ratchet of Vaporex’s memorial?” 

“I told you, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. And as for what Ratchet would think…” Drift drew a ragged breath into his intakes. “We talked about this. When Ratchet realized the spark burnout was going to kill him. He sat me down and he told me that he wanted me to have a long and happy life after he was…” Drift’s voice broke. “After he was gone. That I couldn’t stop living, and that he didn’t want me to mourn forever. He said if I ever took a fancy to someone new, that I had his blessing to find myself another courtmate.” 

Ratchet’s lip quirked. 

“And I told him to shut up, because…” The words disappeared in static. Drift reset his voxcoder and tried again. “Because I didn’t ever want to be touched that way by anyone, ever again, other than the mech who’d saved my life in Rodion all those centuries ago.” Drift felt light streaming from his optics. “Except that’s you, too, isn’t it?” 


	10. Precious

Chapter 10: Precious 

Ratchet found himself torn between hope and fear. Hope that there might be some kind of future for him and Drift after all. Fear that anything he did to hold onto Drift would just end up hurting this mechanism who, after all, came from an entirely different universe. 

But a universe with common roots to his own. 

He was Ratchet’s Dreddlock, once. 

_My Drift_ . 

And long ago, he and Drift’s Ratty had also been the same person. 

“Yes,” Ratchet admitted quietly. “Yes, I saved his…your…life in Rodion.” 

“So it’s _stupid_ for us to pretend we don’t care about each other. Because I know that _you_ wouldn’t still be lighting candles on a tomb to someone everyone else had forgotten about if you hadn’t seen something about Drift of New Rodion that was worth remembering.” 

The kid had him there. They cared about one another, whether they ought to or not, and Ratchet knew full well how rare and precious a thing that was. It wasn’t something to be casually tossed aside. 

But Ratchet was afraid. Terror stole his words away, and silence hung in the air between them. He couldn’t make himself say yes, and he didn’t want to say no, and so quiet settled down like a shroud, smothering his spark. 

His fear only increased when Drift turned his face away. “I can’t force you,” Drift murmured. “I can’t…it can’t just be me chasing you.” 

Ratchet wanted to tell him that he could. That it would be the easiest thing in the world if he did. 

_Just grab me and make me do whatever you want me to do. I won’t fight you._

_It’ll be so much easier that way, if all I have to do is give in._

But Drift stood up instead. 

Drift was going to do the right thing. He wasn’t going to push himself on Ratchet. He was going to make Ratchet admit what he wanted. 

It was the one thing Ratchet had never been able to do. 

“Give me your datapad,” Drift said quietly. 

Ratchet handed it over without arguing. He could only wish Drift would give him some more orders. _Tell_ him how they were going to be fixing this mess. 

Instead, Drift punched keys and then handed the datapad back. “That’s my comm frequency,” Drift said, as though Ratchet couldn’t have guessed the significance of the numbers and letters on the screen. Ratchet wondered if he’d ever have the nerve to call it. 

Ratchet accepted the pad as silence settled between them. Ratchet felt as though he stood on the edge of a cliff, where in one more step, he’d either fall or fly. He’d never find out which. That last step…he knew already he wouldn’t be able to take it. 

“Can you promise me something?” Drift asked slowly. 

Ratchet nodded. He’d do anything if Drift only told him to. 

“Can you at least…it’s up to you, if you ever want to see me again, but please…” Drift drew in a ragged breath. “The only thing I can ask of you is to please let me know you’re okay. That you’re recovering. If nothing else, I need to know that. To know you’re okay.” 

Ratched drew a deep breath into his air intakes. “All right.” Surely he’d be able to do at least that much. 

Drift looked at Ratchet, and down at the berth they’d both shared. “Thanks for taking care of me last night,” Drift murmured. 

_Thank you for saving my life_ , Ratchet thought. But he couldn’t say those words out loud. They’d sound stupid. Inadequate. Unable to think of anything better to say, he said nothing. 

Drift nodded. “Take care, Ratchet of New Vaporex.” 

“You too,” Ratchet finally managed to say. 

Drift smiled. Then he turned, walked to the front door, and quietly let himself out. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Ratchet still sitting on his berth, overwhelmed by a tsunami of emotion. 

He’d found Drift, almost died, and shared his berth with him, all in the space of a single day. 

_And then you lost him again_ . 

Ratchet looked down at his datapad, at the personal frequency he doubted he’d ever find courage to call. 

* 

Work was a tranquilizer, a way for Ratchet of New Vaporex to detach from himself and all the emotions that would only get in the way of his ability to do his job. He’d felt like a zombie as he’d gathered his things, locked his apartment, changed shape and driven to his office in the administrative wing at the Rong Memorial Hospital in Adaptica. 

Still, he kept his word to Drift that he would take better care of himself. His first order of business was to arrange both a professional meeting and a personal appointment with Acting Chief Medical Officer Flatline of Kaon. Unsurprisingly, Flatline took him in promptly. 

Flatline fully supported Ratchet’s decision to enter semi-retirement. No surprise there—Flatline had been urging him to do it even before Megatron had started the war. The mech had always been concerned that Ratchet was going to burn himself out if he didn’t take a step back. Turned out he was right. 

Under the new system, Ratchet would retire from his position as Head Medical Administrator. In his new role, he’d work half-days only, with about a third of his current workload. Flatline had been hoping to accept a transfer from Fixit on Earth and to do some internal promotions to make positions for new graduates. Ratchet didn’t need to feel badly, Flatline said. There were enough hands to take up the slack. 

Of course, Ratchet felt awful. Sick, even. He ought to be grateful that he wasn’t letting anyone down, that the hospital wouldn’t fall into crisis without him. Instead he felt superfluous. As though he hadn’t been worth much if he’d been so easily replaced. 

That was irrational thinking and Ratchet knew it. He just wished he could stop feeling it. 

As for the personal appointment, Flatline ordered a number of additional tests, but for the most part he agreed with First Aid’s diagnosis and suggested course of treatment. 

Afterwards, Ratchet thought about contacting Drift, but decided not to. He had nothing new to report. What would he say? He might as well wait until the tests came back. 

Fortunately, there were some projects on his slate that he still needed to finish up. So, even though his workload had been greatly reduced, he had enough ongoing tasks to bury those uncomfortable feelings in long hours and hard work. For four days, anyway, until he finished the last of them. 

On the fifth day—a day off—Ratchet had his follow-up appointment. The test results were encouraging. He’d already started to heal, though his full recovery would be slow and gradual. He thought of calling Drift with the good news. Instead, he went home to his apartment. 

He tested the door, as he did every night. It was still locked, as it was every night. He opened the door and stepped inside, his optics probing the shadows for a moment before he activated the lights. His gaze slid to his balcony. Closed. Locked. As far as he could tell, his belongings were undisturbed. 

Ratchet realized he’d expected to see Dreddlock—Drift—lurking in the dimness of his apartment, or wandering through the hospital corridors, or tailing him on his way to or from work. He hated that he felt disappointed instead of relieved. 

He didn’t want to dwell on those thoughts. He began to tidy away his clutter with an energy borne of desperation. 

By the sixth day, Ratchet’s apartment, and everything in it, was spotless. Ratchet paced the floor, brainstorming alternative tasks. Nutritious fuel he should buy. Filing he could complete. People he ought to contact who weren’t named Drift. He was running out of distractions from the spectre looming in the back of his mind. 

And Drift had not messaged him. 

On the seventh day, with no more busywork, Ratchet looked at his comm, thought twice, and went to the berth early. A little extra recharge would probably be beneficial for a mech in his condition. 

Unfortunately, he’d been unsuccessful at working himself into a state of exhaustion, and as a result, he dreamed. 

* 

“Hey, doc.” 

A ghost came swaggering out of the nebulous darkness, hands clasped behind his back, pistols on his hips and a wicked smirk on his lips. The red police-issue visor hid Dreddlock’s optics, but Ratchet could feel them locked on his frame like the targeting reticle of a lethal weapon. “I hear you’re coming to join me soon?” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ratchet retorted, but already he felt a qualm in his spark. Yes, he’d been taking his medicine and consuming better fuel, but he hadn’t dealt with his addiction to overwork yet, had he? 

“Aw, come on, doc.” Dreddlock reached out and grasped Ratchet’s upper left arm. “What have you got to live for?” 

Ratchet struggled. “You’d be surprised.” 

It would be the easiest thing…the easiest thing in the universe…for Ratchet to surrender. Let Dreddlock drag him down into the nebulous darkness. 

A part of him maybe even wanted it. 

But his ethics—or maybe it was just his pride—always insisted on making things difficult for Dreddlock. He reflexively dug in his heels, balking, knowing Dreddlock would not be deterred for long. 

Then he thought about Drift of Rodion. 

No, he didn’t want to die. He couldn’t put poor Drift through another funeral this soon. 

Ratchet began to struggle in earnest. 

“Okay.” Dreddlock tightened his grip until it became painful. He put his face right up against Ratchet’s and whispered, with a flash of fang, “Surprise me.” 

Ratchet dimmed his optics and imagined Drift’s face. 

“Let him go.” A new voice rang out through Ratchet’s fog-shrouded dream. 

Dreddlock turned to face the newcomer with a snarl. Ratchet brightened his optics. And Drift of Rodion appeared from out of the mist, with his priest’s cloak swirling behind him. 

“You found religion?” Dreddlock sneered at Ratchet. 

“I said, _let him go_ ,” Drift insisted. 

“Go away, priest,” Dreddlock spat. “This doesn’t concern you.” 

An instant later—so quickly Ratchet didn’t see Drift move—Drift’s sword was in his hand, the long sword he’d had that night in Ratchet’s berth, and the tip of it was pointed at Dreddlock’s throat. “The doctor is _mine_ ,” Drift hissed. 

Dreddlock released Ratchet’s aching arm. “Who…who do you think you are?” he snapped, as his hands dropped to the pistols on his hips. 

“Bad news, slagger,” Drift growled, pressing the blade tighter. A thin pink line appeared on Dreddlock’s throat. “I’m _you_.” 

Ratchet gasped and woke up. 

* 

Ratchet sat upright in the berth, panting for air. He felt too hot. His fans couldn’t keep up. 

_Drift._

It didn’t matter if Ratchet thought he ought to stay away from Drift of Rodion. If he should let the priest live his own life, without Ratchet hanging around reminding him of everything he’d lost. 

Drift had a hold on him that wasn’t letting go. 

And, Ratchet admitted with a pang, he must have some kind of hold on Drift, too, or the mech wouldn’t have begged him just to let him know how he was doing. 

He’d been putting off calling Drift for a week now, and that was cruel. He’d promised to at least tell Drift that his health was improving. He didn’t necessarily need to do anything more than that. 

Because Drift was not Dreddlock. Drift wasn’t coming after him. He’d meant what he said. Ratchet had to take the initiative if he wanted anything more. 

At the very least, Ratchet ought to tell Drift that he was getting better. 

Ratchet looked up Drift’s personal communications code and activated his comm link—quickly, before he could lose his nerve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next installment, "Heaven Can Wait," coming soon.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's supported this story.


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